Of Dreams And Monsters
by Absentdementia
Summary: When do dreams start to be better than the real world? When does life become a dream?
The first time he had that dream, the Dark Lord was understandably flummoxed. In all his life even in the most innocence of childhood, never had he been able to conjure such peace for himself. Of course the said peace was somewhat ruined by the presence of his nemesis, his prophesied enemy. He had attempted to throw out the intrusion, but as is the usual with dream he was a mere poppet of his playful subconscious until he awakened. Apparently his subconscious was still capable of this, who knew?

The second time he dreamt, he remembered more details. There was never any difficulty considering he was a master occlumens. But there were one or two deviations in the dreams. One was that they were remarkably detailed. There were no blurred imprints of a dream long fled from morning; instead it had the true clarity that was found in real memories, as if it had all happened. As if he had indeed spent the time with his arch enemy instead of resting in his bedroom, his parseltongue warded room. Second oddity was how he seemed to be acting so very out of character. He couldn't control his actions in a dream, true enough. But it was very disconcerting that he wasn't feeling any murderous rage either. His mind was curiously blank.

As he stared at a parchment, his quill leaving a slowly widening blot of ink in the place he was supposed to start writing, he decided that he was enough distracted with the couple of fantastical things his mind conjured up just because and quite possibly it was not occupied enough before. With that in mind, he busied himself in the raid plans.

He pushed the images out of his mind. This was real life and in real life he couldn't afford any weaknesses. In real life, there was no sympathy between him and the boy-who-lived. In real life there was no peace, nor a boy who would smile at him without any pretense.

He couldn't quite forget it though.

He had started to hope that the nuisance was now gone from his mind and he was glad that he could return to his daily rest without dreams of any kind. If there was disappointment in any hidden part in the brilliant mind, it didn't make its presence known.

But it occurred a third time. And the dark lord watched from the sidelines. Harry Potter .his prophesied enemy, the Boy-Who-Lived, was sitting on a wooden bench on the shores of a small stream, water licking down at the stones of the bank. He wiggled naked toes in the cool water, content smile lighting up his face. It was green, the entire surrounding, the soft green that came from sunlight reflecting off the spring leaves. Trees surrounded them with small concession to empty spaces. The wood was lonely, but bright and very silent save for the gurgling of water and breathing of two people who silently shared the peaceful place.

And like every time the boy turned to the man silently watching him and gave a shy smile, teeth barely peeking out.

The dark lord woke up, his hand on a rapidly beating heart that had been an insignificant organ in his anatomy so far. Long pale fingers clenched the robe at the sudden onslaught of pain, not unlike heartburn, and the scarlet eyed Lord wondered if the brat of a child had managed to somehow curse him through the mindscapes. He scoffed at the notion however, at the possibility that a teen midway through Hogwarts had enough magical prowess or even cunning to manage to overpower the dark lord in the realm of mind arts. Then he remembered how helpless he had been in all these dreams, unable to bring forth his true emotions and curse the impudent child. No, the boy couldn't do anything, but his blasted mentor was not so inept. Albus Dumbledore was many things, but lacking in magical skill or knowledge he was not. Lord Voldemort never made any mistakes, not even in choice of his rivals. No matter how much of an annoyance he was, the old man had the ability to stand up to him and still survive.

With those thoughts in mind, he tried to think of a perfect solution. He wouldn't drink dreamless sleep potion, because the potion would be a liability that the Dark Lord refused to depend on and in addition to that he didn't touch a drink that would interfere with his mental capacity. He wouldn't take such a risk, merely to avoid something that may or may not be relatively harmless.

He did the next best thing, and removed the wretched memories from his mind. The unbreakable glass tubes that held the swirling silver things (not quite liquid, not gas either), were placed in a heavily warded safe in his personal room. He didn't want anyone to stumble upon something quite so damaging to his reputation.

If he put away the memories as if he was handling something precious, there was nobody present to enlighten him.

He poured himself in his work, and the death eaters felt equal part eager and terrified in the presence of their enigmatic master.

A month passed, and the plans were all underway and not for once the serpentine lord thought about small glass vials secured in a small safe within a complex web of traps and protections.

The Dark Lord held no thoughts in his mind as he went to bed; his wand placed under his pillow as usual and didn't think how this night would be any different.

The dream started without any variations. Even if he had done this three times before, regardless his eyes blinked upon to sun flashing into his eyes. Turning away from the black spots dancing in his vision, he looked at the clear as crystals stream bubbling merrily mere steps away. Both sides of the banks were lined with small shrubs that gave away to towering trees. They were generously covered with fresh leaves and the winter trees softly shed but never quite lost itself to the decay of time. It was eternal spring here. Voldemort turned his gaze away from the clear blue sky, not thinking about his lack of emotions nor pondering over the glaring differences that shouldn't be present in a normal dream, like how he could hear clear sounds of water, how he could feel the breeze soothing his skin and how this place felt like reality that the reality he woke up to failed to be.

As always his gaze fell to the boy sitting on the stone bench, staring at the sky. The youth wiggled his toes in the caressing water and a soft giggle left his lips. Like clockwork green eyes (so green like the wood that surrounded him, like the moss that his bare feet sank into) looked at him and softened. His breath caught in his throat in a way that he couldn't understand. And then he smiled at him.

It happened the same way every single time and yet it never failed to surprise him, captivate his soul like nothing else.

The dream faded to nothing while his heart burned capriciously in his chest.

The death eater attacks were particularly vicious that week, for the deadliest man in the history of England sought revenge for the offense his enemy dealt him with. He raged at the hopeless he felt in the dreams, at the emotions the boy wrought out from him and at his helplessness from being unable to protest it. He hoped the boy would learn a lesson and leave the monster be. And he knew the boy wouldn't dare to confront him again in those dreams, lest more of his comrades fall to his wand, their blood adorning the hem of his robes.

A part of him rejoiced at having driven the boy away, the other stayed silent.

Yet, as he had hoped, the dreams didn't go away. When he dreamed again, nothing really changed. The sun shone as brightly and the branched waved as happily in the soft breeze of the beautiful spring as ever. Yet, when the boy turned to look at him, there was no contentedness. There was a smile still, but sadness cloaked it like the winter snow and the warm sun couldn't will away the chill that suddenly invaded him.

Those green, green eyes were bright like the fresh sprouts bathed in the morning dew and the dark lord couldn't look away from the overly filled eyes that threatened to spill over and stubbornly held on. There was neither condemnation in that gaze nor any accusation, just a thickening sorrow that clawed at his heart. In the slaughter of the entire week, he mused this had been the most damning of it all.

He was the cruel monster thriving on pain and misery that he personally inflicted on and still the boy looked at him and smiled at him, entirely too giving. The loss of the glimmer in those verdant eyes hit him harder than he wanted and he included himself in the causality of that week.

When he woke up, fresh tear tracks were drying upon pale, sunken cheeks and Nagini, his ever so faithful companion, was asking worriedly what distressed him so.

The relatively blood-thirsty followers were vastly disappointed at the abrupt cancellation of all the raids, but none dared question him.

The vials were retrieved from their relative safety and their contents were returned to whence they came from. After all, the mind of a Dark Lord was safer than any other place. He refused to think upon any other reasons that compelled him to take back the memories.

The next two times he watched with desperation at the plaintive still lurking in those verdant eyes. The Dark Lord never admitted failure nor did he ever regret but he longed, oh so painfully, to turn back the time and remove the taint from the child. He longed to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, but it was futile. How could he ask for repentance for the fault of another?

In the consecutive nights with crushing heart, he watched the beautiful smile become leaden with grief.

In the days, the Dark Lord couldn't quite bring himself to order the prisoners be killed. He looked away from the curious eyes of the death eaters.

The next time he dreamt, there was determination in his heart and cautious hope in his soul. The boy playing with the water watched with wide, wide eyes as the Dark Lord plucked a wild flower from the shrubbery nearby his waist and placed on the stone bench. He didn't step away even while his heart was thundering away with the force of a galloping horse. The boy with hair as dark as midnight picked up the small flower by the delicate stem and caressed the white petals carefully. Green eyes peeked out under dark lashes and smiled at him.

The Dark Lord wondered if the boy was as aware of his actions in the dreams or he was as helpless in his actions as himself. It felt like the dream self was separate from him and yet not. It might be a trap for him, to lure and capture. Harry Potter might have some malicious intentions. He couldn't bring himself to care about all that though. In his mind he separated the boy-who-lived and the boy with the green eyes. It might not be very wise for someone who had lived so long and experienced more that he cared for.

He just couldn't let go of the one that smiled so unconditionally at him.

Weeks passed. And he continued to dream. The raids were reduced drastically, but his plans remained unaltered.

Then in one such ordinary night, the boy smiled up at him beatifically and his own lips curved in fond amusement as they had for past some nights. The dark haired youth smiled wider and for the first time held out his hand. His own eyes widened in surprise and he looked up at the boy questioningly to see hesitant hope as the child worried his lower lip.

Painfully slow, he reached out his hand and the boy smiled as he held it firmly. There was lightness in his heart that he didn't bother to explore as he was led away from the place deeper into woods along the streams. The boy swung around their hands as they walked and for the first time he felt content.

There was heaviness in his heart as the Dark Lord woke up. His dream-self might not have been surprised to see normal hands he had possessed, but he was. Did the boy even know who he was sharing his dreams with? He didn't think so, not if the face he possessed in the dreams was the one he had lost upon his resurrection. He didn't think the boy would smile at his enemy so without restraint. Long, thin claw like fingers curled in the bedspread as he mentally grieved.

It changed nothing though; he refused to give up on the happiness in his dreams even if it brought misery to his waking time.

Months passed and he surrounded himself in his work to distract himself from the constant aches in his chest. He ignored the worried gazes of his closest followers when they caught sight of him occasionally rubbing his chest to alleviate the pain.

Yet, he refused to untangle himself from the enchantment. He knew it to be enchantment, for what else could captivate his mind, heart and soul so entirely? He refused to step away from the web of traps that he was undoubtedly walking into. Every time he saw the beautiful green eyes light up with happiness at the sight of him, even the pain seemed sweet to him. It didn't matter, he reasoned.

And as he looked at the smile bestowed upon his eyes only, his entire world crumbled and rebuilt.

His dream self had neither doubt nor the pain his waking brought him, only slight hesitance that lifted off at the openness in the face of the boy. Thus, he had no qualm to raise his hand and touch the rosy cheek that had tempted him so often as the boy flushed with.

It was warm under his fingers, the sun kissed skin.

The Dark Lord woke up with rapidly beating heart and tingling fingers.

His day passed in a daze of memories of laughter of joy and warm, blushing cheeks.

The day of final battle arrived before he could have another dream. He refused to mourn, for surely he could never have another chance to see those eyes smile at him again. Neither lived while the other survived. He didn't want to kill the boy, didn't want to let the boy fade away from his dreams, his memories. His mind fluctuated between letting himself killed (his now very alive heart refused to beat without that smile giving him a reason) and killing the boy, because he had worked hard to bring about the equality to magic and magical creatures. He wondered how selfish it would make him to let the world fade away save the green eyes that had captured and held prisoner to his soul.

His fingers trembled as he clasped his wand in determination.

The wards of Hogwarts were lifted with an effortlessness months of study brought and as he looked at the sea of people in opposite to him, he knew he would win this war. He could do this, overcome this minor interruption.

He couldn't do it.

He watched as the sea of people parted the boy-who-lived came forward to take the position of their leader. The wand was out and the boy walked on until they were facing each other across the ground mere feet away.

He couldn't do it.

As he looked at the green eyes lift up from the dark lashes, the eyes that had haunted him day and night for months, he realized how delusional he had been. He couldn't raise his wand and take away the vibrant life from the forest green eyes. He couldn't watch them be tainted in sorrow. After months of luxury of being accepted so unconditionally with smiles, he couldn't watch them be turned to hatred. How delusional he had been to think the world had been anywhere else than right in front of him.

Complete hopelessness washed over him and there was a crushing weight twisting in his chest as he waited for the holly wand to bring him down.

But the wand didn't face him. There was no loathing in the eyes he so hopelessly obsessed over.

His breath left him when same hesitant smile peeked out at him, same as the swirling away in silvery memories. Surely the boy didn't recognize him, did he?

Hope rose in awkward steps as it saw the smile that visited him every night. But this was better. This was real life. The night air was still and stale in the late winter. It was not eternal spring, yet so utterly perfect. He wasn't hiding under the guise of a face he had in his early years, but watching from the monstrous features and still, the shy smile didn't waver. The joy that erupted within him was ten times better than it ever was in his dreams.

Slowly, he took a step forward. Slightly hysterical, he wondered if there had been a shrubbery nearby.

Verdant eyes lighted up in tentative hope and the Dark Lord too courage from that.

With five more steps, he stood in front of the one he was supposed to kill.

Yet, when a small hand drowned in overlarge shirt trembled out for him to take, he accepted like the precious treasure it was.

He probably shouldn't. But he couldn't help it. Spidery fingers lifted up as the boy looked on questioningly and the fingers lightly trailed upon smooth cheeks.

"It is as warm as I dreamed."


End file.
